I don’t have an answer, so I pull her panties aside and slide two fingers inside her. She’s already soaked, and the way her hips grind up to meet my hand tells me what she wants more than words ever could.
“You’re shaking,” she says.
I drag my thumb up her clit, slow, until her whole body trembles. “So are you.”
She digs her nails into my shoulders. “I can’t stop thinking about you. Even when you’re gone. It’s a little fucked up.”
I kiss her, slowly. “Doesn’t feel fucked up to me.”
She shudders when I drop to my knees at the edge of the bed and slide my tongue along her thigh. Her legs go wide for me, her hands in my hair. I eat her until she’s gasping, every breath a stutter, her whole body arching off the bed. When she comes, it’s so intense she has to bite her own hand to keep from screaming.
She pulls me up by the hair, mouth frantic on mine. “I want you inside me. Now.”
Seconds later, I thrust into her. There’s no slow build—only raw, instant need. She clings to my shoulders, urging me deeper, nails raking my skin. I fuck her hard, grinding out all the words I can’t say, all my fear, all my longing. It’s desperate and beautiful and ugly with longing, and when I come, it’s with a broken sound, forehead against hers, neither of us letting go until the shudders stop.
After, she holds my face in her hands and just looks at me, breath catching. There’s a tear at the corner of her eyelash, as if the truth is too big for her to carry. I wipe it with my thumb and kiss her eyelid.
“You scare the shit out of me,” she admits, so quiet I almost miss it.
“Right back at you.”
She laughs, shaky. “I don’t even care anymore if it’s real. I just want it all the same.”
“Me too,” I whisper.
We stay like that, twined together, until the city goes black and the only light is the neon halo of the Ritz sign spinning on the ceiling.
I wake up before dawn. I always do. I stare at the ceiling, the elaborate crown moldings, the soft hum of hotel HVAC. She’s curled against my back, one arm heavy around my waist, breathing smooth and even. I don’t ever want to move.
But I do. I ease out of bed, careful not to wake Emma, and pull on last night’s jeans. The city is still dark, rain painting the sidewalks silver. I text Craig to ask if there’s a car for me, but I don’t wait for the answer.
Something in me is afraid to wake her. Like if I see her eyes, I’ll say everything I’m not supposed to.
I pace the suite, restlessness and happiness and dread all tangled up, until the sunlight finally cracks the horizon. Then I crawl back in beside her and fold her into my arms. She wakes with a soft noise and burrows her face against my chest, no barriers at all.
She looks up at me, eyes searching. “You okay?”
I nod. “Couldn’t sleep.”
She touches my jaw, gently. “Want to talk about it?”
I shake my head, not trusting myself. “Just wanted to watch you.”
She blushes, actually blushes, and I file that away as the most perfect thing I’ve ever seen.
The rest of the day is more interviews, more photos, more chaos, but it all feels distant, like a movie I’m half-watching from a safe seat. The only things that matter are the spaces in between, the way her hand finds mine under the table, the look we give each other in the car that says everything.
That night, we fuck again. Her thighs tremble around my hips as I push into her with agonizing slowness. Every inch feels sacred. She arches beneath me, skin flushed rose-gold in the lamplight, nipples hard against my chest as I trace the delicate curve of her collarbone with my tongue. When she comes, her body clenches around me like a fist, and I follow her over the edge with a broken groan. We both pretend not to notice the tears that spill, mine or hers, but afterwards we just hold on, silent, until eventually the world shrinks to nothing but the damp sheets and the thundering of our hearts against each other’s skin.
It’s only day three of the press tour, and already I know this is either the best or worst decision I’ll ever make.
But for now, I let myself believe it's the best.
CHAPTER 14
ASHER
Barcelona is sobright it hurts my eyes. The press day is at the W, which looks like a giant sail torn loose from a luxury yacht and beached by God, right on the edge of the Mediterranean. From our panoramic windows, you can count two dozen freighters out on the blue, content to let the city eat itself alive while they wait for clearance. Inside, the hotel is a hurricane of luggage, stylists, security, and studio chaperones. I check in with Craig, accept my credential lanyard and “welcome gift”—an overbranded tote bag stuffed with shelf-stable macaroons—and scan the atrium for Emma. I spot her immediately, in a linen jumpsuit with her hair knotted high, talking to a pair of Spanish reporters whose floral pens rise and fall with her every word.
